The Faceless Man
by YvieNightingale
Summary: So this is going to be mainly focusing around the walkers and Jon Snow at the wall, but I will include characters in other places too. The first chapter is setting up an original character whose storyline is going to crossover into the storylines of characters from the TV show at some point. Hope you like! (Don't be afraid to criticise.)
1. Prologue

CHAPTER 1- BRAAVOS:

Author note: (Can anyone tell me how to put spaces between paragraphs?) Okay so this chapter ended up not having any characters from the books or TV show in it, but I promise the next one will, and this storyline is going to come together with the storylines about the other characters that I'm going to have running parallel to this. Enjoy! =)

Dusk was not kind to Braavos. Lengthy bouts of heavy sunlight could dance atop the canals like shimmering sheens of liquid silver, but the evening shadows had a tendency to distort, as ever. The fading feathers of the afternoon sun oft shed a murky cast over algae-encrusted waters, bringing to the surface the grim depths of the stone-lined waterways.

 _Valar Morghulis. All men must die._ Kyra had often mused over the transient death of the fabled 'Lord of Light' as his golden sceptre of flame would sink beneath the horizon before her. She had never had much of a taking for the many religions and all their contradictions. She supposed that was her father's doing. Edd Castor was a Westerosi captain- though he lacked frustratingly the inherent confidence one might ensue from a lifetime of authentic and unexaggerated chronicles of one's (undoubtedly mundane) migration from the modest overlook of River Row, King's Landing, to the spiderweb of canals and squat, stone houses that was the Free City of Braavos. Of course, he had been raised leniently and loosely by the objective laws as laid out by The Seven-Pointed Star. But, like so many Westerosi, took only to regard its words when they appointed him in a moral light. Kyra supposed that's why the Free City attracted him so strongly. Braavos was a city of religious and racial tolerance- being home to such a diverse multitude of people- promoting a harmonious liberality in its very foundation.

But it was the House of Black and White that really intrigued Kyra. The immense, grey structure that stood desolate on the Isle of the Gods, guarded with ridged stone pillars that spanned the towering expanse of the weathered granite. The windowless temple built in favour of the Many-Faced God. She often thought of the men inside: men without names, pasts, secrets, faces. Often, she would steady her raft as she crossed in sight of the temple. Stand amongst the baskets of fresh-caught salmon and jars of herring preserved in salt and close her eyes. Pretend as though she were no one. She was not Kyra, daughter of Edd. She was not the fourteen-year-old, black-haired, olive-skinned daughter of a Bravossi courtesan who peddled fish across moss-coated canals. She could have any face she wanted. Be whoever she wanted. And at the same time, want for nothing. Have no desires. Be nothing and nobody.

But one cannot forget who they are in a matter of seconds. One cannot cast away their identity whilst surrounded by their own belongings and duties.

(PARAGRAPH SPACE)

'Kyra?'

Her mother's voice had always had a tendency to carry over the still, black water of the canals. Even from the centre of the city, Kyra winced at the sound of her mother's high-pitched squawk. Of course, she had halted her work, as she always did, to marvel at the clashing forces of black and white stood side-by-side in twin unity. The great arched doorway that remained between her and the covert mysteries that seeped unknowingly into her dreams at night and anchored themselves solidly at the forefront of her waking mind.

'KYRA?'

Her mother again. She sighed and turned her oar against the murky water, shifting her weight as the motion sent gentle ripples out from behind her. Rare as it was in Braavos, the heavy clouds above threatened to cast a curtain of summer rain over the night. She made her way down the Canal of Heroes, skimming steadily over the silky water.

'Girl,' Gyreo called out to her, as always. He was an old man of perhaps sixty years, drowned in a black robe, his gaunt cheeks catching the shadows like caverns that bored into the sides of his face.

Kyra angled the boat towards where he sat at the canal side. Already, the sun had dipped beneath the jagged line of houses on the horizon, leaving only a wash of indigo smoke over the black velvet of night to mark its passing.

Gyreo held out a shaking arm, a single iron coin lodged between his swollen fingers.

'Evening Gyreo,' Kyra smiled tiredly, plucking the scuffed, iron square from his hand and pocketing it, reaching across the raft for a salted herring.

He nodded sluggishly, taking the fish in a cotton cloth and wrapping it. 'Thank you, sweetheart, I'll see you tomorrow.' He coughed violently, mumbling something under his breath as she pushed off from the side of the waterway with her oar.

(PARAGRAPH SPACE)

Just as the first few droplets melted down from the sky, plucking at the water to her right, she turned into her street. The Castors lived across from a small tavern: The Hanged Horse. Though many of the houses in Braavos were stacked atop one another in slim intervals, many of the buildings close to the Purple Harbour were squat, flat-roofed, cottage-like houses. Somewhat irritatingly, the tavern remained brightly light inside and out and radiated with an awful din of raspy sailing songs and deep-throated cheers. It was the same every night. Always until the early hours of the morning, tearing through sleep with balled fists ready to pick a fight with any stranger that might ask for a little peace and quiet.

Kyra pulled her raft up to the cobbles beside the arched bridge and lassoed the rope over the cleat, securing it with a quick hitch knot.

'You're back late again.'

She started suddenly at the stern voice behind her. 'I had to visit Gyreo on the way back.'

Her mother narrowed her eyes. 'You visit that man every day, that's no excuse.'

She kept her mouth shut, throwing fistfuls of waste salmon into a sack for scrapping. It would all be rotten come the morning.

'I'll finish here, your father wants to speak with you.'

Kyra nodded jerkily, clenching her jaw. _The faceless men fear nothing,_ she reminded herself. _I am no one. I'm not Kyra, daughter of Edd, peddler of stinking fish. I'm nothing and no one._ She stood clumsily and trudged across to the house, noting the candlelight coming from the kitchen window. The door creaked open. Everything rusted when you lived by a canal.

'Kyra?' Her father's voice sounded from the kitchen.

She closed her eyes and opened her mouth. No sound came out. She leant against the door, closing it behind her.

Footsteps echoes from behind the kitchen door. She watched it open, her chin raised, indignant.

'What are you doing standing there, child?' His voice was emotionless, his face stony and stern. He stood a head higher than her, his arms encased in thick muscle, his chest hirsute like a bear's. 'Get in here,' he nodded towards the kitchen, moving back through the door.

Kyra followed behind. Candlelight stung in her eyes as she moved from the darkness. She sat across the table from him, perching tentatively atop her chair. 'I know I was back late, but I was-'

'I don't want to hear it.' He met her eyes. 'I wanted to talk to you about the _Kyra Castor_.'

Her eyes widened. 'Oh.' The _Kyra Castor_ was the ship her father had christened after her on the day of her birth. He often skipped between various employers, travelling spices, wines, anything he could get good coin for shipping.

'I want you to captain her.'

Kyra sat dumbfounded for a moment. Starring wide-eyed into her father's glassy, brown eyes like a common fool. 'Me?' she managed a high-pitched squeak. She coughed, coming to her senses. 'I've never captained a ship, I've scarcely ever even _been_ on a ship-'

'Then perhaps it's time you learned?' he cut her off, impatient.

She shrivelled under his glare. Her voice quietened to a whisper. 'But I'm a woman.'

For a while, there was nothing but the faint crackle of the flame to be heard. Ed Castor sat irreproachable at the other end of the table. His face was a mask of reputable surliness. 'Do you want to stay here? Peddle fish? Is that all you want?'

She hesitated. _I want to see the house of black and white._ She wanted to tell him. _I want to serve the God of Death, I want to take on new faces, that's what I want._ But he would never hear of his daughter finding religion when he disregarded it so. He would never hear of his grandfather's company dissolving to smoke caught in the wind by the girl who wanted to forget her family and all her ancestors worked to achieve. She shook her head.

'Then tomorrow you will manage the Castor Trading Company.' It almost looked as though he were trying to smile.

Her jaw dropped. ' _Tomorrow?_ '

'Yes. The _Kyra Castor_ leaves tomorrow at first light. You will be sailing to Volantis, where you will attain a shipment of cargo, which you will be transporting to Slaver's Bay.'

 _Slave cities._ The idea turned her stomach. 'What sort of cargo?'

'You needn't worry about that. Griscaris will be your first mate, he knows exactly what you'll be picking up when you get there. All I want you to worry about is acquiring the skills you'll need to one day run the company for yourself when I'm no longer able. Can you do that?'

A smile touched upon her lips. A sense of pride found its way into her blood, warming it to a deep shade of red against her skin. 'I can.'


	2. Chapter 1: JON

CHAPTER 2: JON

Snow scattered in the wind like fragments of frosted glass, charging against bare skin in cutting bouts. The day was nearing an end it seemed, and still they were no closer to finding the missing rangers, who had left Castle Black almost a moon ago. Jon snow dragged his feet over the heavy snowdrifts, hunched under bags of food and waterskins that grew increasingly heavier with every step he took.

'I think we ought to make camp for the night, Jon,' Tormund stated, flatly. Even with his sizeable stature and natural affinity for the merciless bite of the climate north of the Wall, his footsteps lagged under the weight of his own supply bag.

'Camp where?' Jon dismissed him, fixing his eyes on the haze of white ahead of him, pulling the bag higher on his shoulder with a grunt.

Tormund gritted his teeth. The prospect of a Lord Commander was still new to him. Of course, the wildlings had followed Mace Rayder for a time, but at the end of the day they were still free to leave if they so wished. Follow their own rules. Live as they pleased. But Jon was right, there was no shelter to be found anywhere in sight. In any direction, all that remained of the world was white. White washes of whirling snow, obscuring the horizon like a curtain, masquerading the sun, the sky, the ground. Everything.

'I don't think I can walk much farther Jon,' Sam whined from his left. His cheeks glowed a deep shade of red, his brown eyes awash with tears of exhaustion that he tried desperately not to let fall.

Jon stopped. Enervation scorched his muscles and tore at his resolve, but he could not let it show. He pressed his lips together in a brooding frown, locks of coal black hair brushing over his eyes in snow-dusted waves. He took a moment to assess his miniscule rescue party. Samwell Tarly, his longest friend, but a shameful coward and dismal swordsman; Dolorous Edd Tollett, an experienced Ranger, but a better jester than anything; Tormund Giantsbane, the red-bearded ex-wildling, perhaps the most ruthless fighter of the group, but still an area of suspicion for many men of the Night's Watch given his previous allegiance during the Battle of Castle Black only a year ago. The rest of the party consisted of a small handful of young boys who had taken the black after wildlings raided their villages, leaving them orphaned. They were young, and keen to prove their worth by volunteering for some petty rescue mission no one really seemed to care about. Surely, they regretted the decision now.

'Who knows when we'll find shelter next?' one of the young boys chimed in, his voice cracking as he spoke.

Jon nodded. Doubts flooded his mind. Had he lead his friends on a suicide mission? What had he been thinking, leaving his post to search for a group of twelve rangers who were most certainly dead. Or worse.

Tormund seemed to see past the stony mask of Jon's face to the building anxiety beneath. 'We've been heading in a straight line northwards. If we turn east there should be a forest only a couple of miles away. Maybe we can find some dry wood. Start a fire,' he offered.

Sam groaned at the suggestion of more walking.

Night threatened its disorienting darkness through the cascading sheets of snowfall, firing streams of red over the darkening sky to the west. They had started the journey with seven horses. Now they had one. Jon and Tormund had taken on the fast-emptying saddle bags, and the meat had provided them with some excellent meals along the way, but continuing on foot, their pace had slowed immensely. Tormund knew the land well enough, Jon supposed. It had been his home until little over five months ago. 'Then we head east,' he nodded.

Calm as ever, the sky showed no indication of there ever having been a storm. Memories of ice tearing through the air like a torrent of jagged stones were nothing more than transient nightmares.

Jon settled against a tree stump, taking over the watch from one of the orphan boys. Under the shelter of the thick forest canopy, the earth was dry and bare, through still crystallised in beads of silver ice that gleamed under the milky wash of moonlight seeping past the climbing foliage. The air was silent, save for the occasional whistle of an icy wind drifting through the trees.

A voice stirred in the darkness. 'You're not as bad as you think.'

Jon scanned the forest with heavy eyes, though he recognised the voice instantly for its raspy tone. 'And what do you know about being Lord Commander?'

Tormund shifted from the shadows, the ground crunching under his heavy footsteps. He lay his crudely-constructed long axe over a knee, taking a seat on a low tree stump. 'Your people told you not to let the wildlings through the Wall. But you did it anyway.' His eyes were wide and wild in the dim light. 'I can admire that.'

'That's the opinion of a Wildling.'

Tormund's fingers seemed to tighten about the hilt of his axe.

'I didn't mean-' Jon sighed. 'I just mean, the opinion of someone who benefited from that decision. Some of the men at castle black still see me as a traitor who let the enemy through our gates when we had little food to get us through the winter as it was.'

The Wilding grunted in response.

Silence ensued from the building tension. Jon found himself shivering, though he felt no colder than he had previously. The idea of the Wildlings being 'the enemy' began to seep back into his mind, and he became very aware of the propinquity of Tormund's blade adjacent to his head. 'Was it wrong of me to leave my command for some petty mission over the wall?' he continued, simply to fill the silence.

'If your so called "men" can't survive a few days without someone telling them which direction to piss in then they're no better than babes wailing out for their mothers. I say fuck 'em.' He nodded along as he spoke. 'What, you think they're waiting back there for you with their swords ready to cut off your head?' He laughed under his breath.

Jon turned away, his face awash with distress. The Westerosi were not like the Wildlings. He had left them in the capable hands of Alliser Thorne- whose leadership he trusted in, but whose allegiance he had grave doubts about. For all he knew there really was a mutiny waiting for him when he returned, just as Lord Commander Mormont had suffered only a few years past.

'I never thought I'd see the Wildlings unite under another Southerner after I watched Mance burn,' Tormund lowered his voice to a rough whisper, 'let alone break bread with the Crows.'

Jon breathed out his tensions slowly, a smile finding his eyes.

'But you managed what no man has ever been able to do before.' He dug the heel of his axe into the earth, leaning against it as he stood, and trudged back over to where he had been sat in the shadows before.

The last horse whinnied and scuffed the ground with a scrawny hoof. And then the night was silent again.

'Jon?'

Jon Snow blinked awake. Sam's pale, round face came into focus. Worries and guilts came back to him in painful waves as his mind adjusted from the blissful inertia of the dreamworld.

'Jon, please don't blame yourself,' Sam pleaded mournfully.

'What?' Jon scrunched his eyes up, propping himself up on an elbow. And then he saw it. Froze. The air left his lungs. His throat tightened.

Past the ice-cold ashes of last night's fire, the rest of the party were stood gathered around something on the ground. Or rather, some _one_.

'It's not your fault, Jon, he chose to come with us,' Sam was still comforting him in a friendly voice somewhere past a million muffling walls of solid stone.

'We have to burn the body.' Tormund broke him from his daze, jumping straight past mourning and landing at pragmatism's door.

'He was a man of the Night's Watch,' Jon rose from the ground, his voice commanding and sincere, though his eyes held nothing but sympathy. _He was just an orphan boy, looking to prove himself. And I lead him to his death._ 'We need to build him a proper pyre; give him a eulogy.'

Sam nodded, to his right.

Edd crouched beside the body and slid the boy's eyes shut.

'We need to start heading back to the Wall or we'll be next,' Tormund growled, leashing the tone of his voice, maintaining an air of reasonableness.

'Don't you people have any _sympathy?_ ' one of the other orphan boys exclaimed, tears flooding his hollow cheeks, his watery brown eyes wide and child-like. 'It's not _fair!_ ' he wailed.

'Death's not fair lad,' Tormund softened his voice, standing up straight, reaching his full height.

'He was my _friend_ and you want to forget him and walk away?' the boy screeched. He was a gutter rat next to Tormund- gaunt and shabby, mousy brown hair and freckled cheeks, barely thirteen. But he didn't care in that moment.

'No, we're going to build a pyre, we're not leaving him behind,' Jon intervened, nodding over to Edd, who stood, moving to collect wood to build the pyre.

It was a pathetic thing, really. They stepped back as the spindly twigs ignited beneath the body. Jon stared fixatedly at the boy's face: eyes closed as though he were asleep, white hair blackening in stray streaks of flame. His face reminded him somehow of his younger sister, Arya. That same thin, fox-like visage engulfed in the fire. _I ought to have stayed at the Wall,_ he knew. How could his people ever come to trust in his leadership if he wasn't even there to lead them?

'Alright, the body is burned enough, we start walking.' Tormund stooped, collecting his bags from the ground.

The brown-haired orphan boy narrowed his eyes, shadows dancing over his face as the fire crackled before him. 'We haven't said the words yet,' he hissed, looking up from beneath the shadow of his lowered brow.

'Words mean little to the dead, boy,' Tormund drawled, callously.

Jon intervened, 'It's the way of the Watch.'

'The Wildling isn't a _member_ of the Watch,' the boy retorted.

Tormund jerked his arm suddenly, and his axe aligned with the boy's throat. 'Watch your tongue.'

'Why take offence? None of the Wildlings made the vow. You're not-'

'I won't have you sneering down on me like that.' He stepped towards the boy, the blade of his axe meeting with his neck. 'These eyes have seen a hundred wars- how many have yours seen?'

'You can't have seen a _hundred,_ ' Sam laughed anxiously, his eyes darting over to Jon across the pyre.

Jon sighed. 'You're not a Wildling anymore, Tormund, you-'

'I may have walked through your gates. I may have bowed to your rules. But _I will always be a Wildling._ ' Swinging the saddle bag over his shoulder, Tormund turned his back on the clearing, making his way back through the forest.

The orphan boy breathed heavily, looking to Jon with accusing eyes. 'I thought you were about to let that brute run me through!'

Jon avoided his eyes. The body was scarcely more than ash on the pyre.

'Are you going to say the words, Jon?' Sam whispered.

A moment passed. Jon nodded, his eyes fixed on the fire. 'His… His name was…' The crackling of the fire consumed the low murmur of his voice.

Sam winced, the silence lengthening. 'Jon?'

'I don't know his name,' Jon confessed, painfully. 'I… I'm sorry.' His apology was monotonous and unconvincing.

'Perhaps I'm the only person in the world who does then,' the boy choked. 'And now his watch has ended.' Tears melted down his face, orange waves of light festering in the hollows of his cheeks. He turned slowly and dispersed from the group, heading into the think line of trees.

Smoke billowed from the fire as the wind picked up, casting waves of ash into the air like black snowflakes twirling in the sky and coming to land in the dirt. Already, the sun had climbed far above the trees, enveloped in a sheen of steely fog.

Two of the orphan boys remained, stood beside Sam, their heads drooping like sunflowers that have lost sight of the sun. They were quiet. Jon had hardly heard them say ten words between them since they left the Wall. He knew not their names.

'I'm sure the greatest leaders of all time never knew the names of _all_ their people,' Sam smiled, pity rounding his eyes.

'This is _different,_ Sam!' Jon snapped. 'When I lead this ranging party, I took responsibility for _lives._ ' His voice softened. 'We're leaving, come on. I won't be responsible for anybody else's death out here.' Shouldering his bags, he closed his eyes, letting his face fall slack; emotionless.

The Wall loomed ahead. Hundreds of years of ice towered higher than any structure known to man rising up from planes of snow and stretching as far as the eye could see. The evening was beginning to turn, and rest and good food were mere minutes away.

'I wouldn't look so glum, Jon. You went to greater lengths than any other Lord Commander would to look for a couple missing rangers. No one can exactly blame you for returning unsuccessful,' Edd spoke the first words anyone had spoken in hours. 'Maybe Alliser can, I suppose. He did tell you not to go. I suppose-'

'That's enough, Edd.' Sam raised his eyebrows. 'We all volunteered for this. We all knew what we were getting ourselves into.'

'That's not the _point,_ Sam,' Jon exclaimed. A member of my party died and another two are missing. How do you think that's going to look when we step though those gates?'

'Half those men can hardly count to eight- they'll never notice the difference,' Edd joked, reassuringly.

The low rumble of the horn sounded twice from the top of the Wall. The sentries had caught sight of the returning rangers and signalled for the gate to be raised.

'Just be glad they can count to two,' Edd mumbled, 'else we'd be dead in the snow within the week.'

'Ignore him, Jon,' Sam rolled his eyes, a smile crossing his face.

Jon paused at the gate. The portcullis clunked to a halt at the top of the large archway. The tunnel was dark. Silent. 'Something's wrong.' He squinted through the darkness. 'There's no one here.'

'There are probably brothers waiting just the other side of the tunnel,' Sam offered.

'Aye, there might well be.' Jon raised his chin, resolute.

'You can't mean-'

'I left a man who hates me in charge in my absence. I let a Wildling-hating boy venture back alone to rally those who told me not to let the Wildlings past our gates. I'm returning unsuccessful. I'm returning to a mutiny. You'll turn yourselves over to them if you want to live.'

Sam shook his head, fear growing in his eyes. 'We… We couldn't-'

Jon stepped forth into the shadow of the narrow passageway.


End file.
